


Too Many to Count

by coffeeat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, caring!Sherlock, iwillburnthefeelsoutofyou, johnlockangst, sick!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeat221b/pseuds/coffeeat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claimed by a strange disease, an ex-army doctor struggles to hide his deteriorating health from his flatmate, who is a consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bowling ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John cannot go to work.

_John's Point of View_

___

This isn't where I want to be.

It's Thursday. I should be stuck in the office, filling out prescriptions for headaches and fishing out erasers crammed up in little kid's noses. But I'm in the flat, bending over the food-splattered sink with my eyes squeezed shut. My arm presses against my stomach, straining to suppress the pain rolling around in it-a heavy bowling ball of pain. It trundles around with every slight movement I make, squashing all my intestines and internal organs.

A sharp gunshot smashes through the aching silence. My body jerks, my limbs crashing against the lower cupboards. My eyes fly open. "Holy-"

"John!" a deep voice rumbles.

A hiss darts out from between my teeth. _Sherlock's bored again,_ I think.

"John!" the consulting detective roars, irritation prickling in his tone. "Pass me my phone."

I manage to unload a noisy grunt of acknowledgement, not daring to speak in fear that the pain will crack my voice. _Where's his bloody phone?_ I wonder, my thoughts straining to pinpoint its location. After a few seconds, a fresh image of Sherlock's coat pocket is rising in my mind. _Okay, but where's his coat?_ A slam erupts from the living room, smashing my train of thoughts into a wreck. A few seconds tick by before footsteps stomp down towards the kitchen. They soon stop at the doorway, and a bitter sigh ripples through the air.

"Don't feel well," I mutter, regaining control of my voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sherlock opening the refrigerator. Inside, the little yellow light clicks on.

"Really now?" the detective says.

"Really." I roll my eyes, turning to face him.

He sticks his head into the belly of the refrigerator. "You've been complaining all week," he says, his voice muffled as he peers at the body parts lining the cold, metal shelves.

"That's because-" Strange growls bubble up from my stomach, and my breakfast shifts around in it. A warm groan squeezes from my throat, dribbling down my chin. My friend pulls his head out of the refrigerator to raise his eyebrows at me. I drop my gaze to my feet, my teeth digging down into my bottom lip.

"Because it's true," he says, finishing my sentence for me.

Heat flashes through my cheeks. I nod, not daring to raise my head until the noises have faded away.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's probably indigestion," he says. He grabs a Ziploc bag with a severed finger resting inside. He tosses it onto the kitchen table. It lands with a light thud as the delicate bones slap against the wooden surface.

I turn my gaze away from the sight of the body part, swallowing hard.

Sherlock pauses for a second before adding, "You did eat a lot at Angelo's."

My shoulders tense as my eyes jerk up to his face. "I'm a bloody doctor," I snap, the words cutting into my tongue. "I _think_ I'd know what indigestion is!"

"Mm-hmm."

His head lowers as he presses a fist against his lips, as if deep in thought. But I catch the corners of his eyes crinkling, the telltale signs of a smile that reveals his hidden amusement. My lips press together, straining to hold back a flood of reprimands. I shuffle over to the refrigerator as a tiny frown begins to pull down my eyebrows.

"And I didn't eat that much," I say, reaching out for the bagged milk.

As my hand closes around the bag, Sherlock mutters, "Tell that to Angelo."

My body freezes as the words shoot through my ears. The rudeness stings my cheeks with a slap. Beside me, Sherlock goes about poking at the body parts, seemingly oblivious to my inward struggle. Deep breath, John, I tell myself, gritting my teeth. My nostrils flare as my lungs draw in a deep, shaky breath.

"What happened to the feet?" the detective asks. "I placed them right-"

"Not now." I shoot a glare at a plastic container holding an eyeball.

A childish whine seeps out from Sherlock's mouth. "But I need-"

With widening eyes, I clench my jaw and straighten, turning on him. "Sher-"

My stomach lurches up, and I double over. Wet vomit squirts out from my mouth along with my unspoken words, splattering onto Sherlock's shoes and the tiled floor. My hand slaps against my lips to form a weak restraint. My cheeks puff out, filled up with a large mouthful of regurgitated breakfast - a large mouthful in too small of a mouth. The pressure intensifies against my lips, forcing them open. My eyes widen as a watery mess oozes out from between my fingers. Hot shame flashes across my cheeks, staining the flushed skin with a warm pink. _Dear God,_ is the only thought that my mind can summon. _Dear God._ The curly-haired man stares at his feet, the corners of his pink lips slightly curling down. Green, slimy chunks slide off of his shoes, the saliva shining against the dark surface. _Dear God._ His shoes. His polished, black shoes with the thin laces tied into tight, neat bows-

An overwhelming wave of pain crashes over me. My stomach strains to suppress the food that surges towards my throat. For a fleeting second, I'm barely holding onto the thin sliver of control, trapped in between vomiting and surviving the attack. It only takes one poke of nausea to cause all horror to break free.


	2. acid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John's stomach hates him.

_John's Point of View_

___

Breakfast barges up, clawing its way through the digestive system and surging up my throat. My limbs spring into action, jerking me around and making a wild dash for the sink. The kitchen table snakes a wooden leg out as I pass by, managing to catch the edge of my foot. Vomit sprays onto the wall in front of me. It's horridly inconsistent. It's messy graffiti, dripping down the patterned wallpaper. I leap for the sink and bend over it, chest heaving as I hurl mouthful after mouthful of half-digested oatmeal and biscuits. Barely formed breaths flit in and out of my screaming lungs, but I can't focus on my need for oxygen. It hurts too much - the acidic trail searing my throat, a destructive path burned into it by the vomit.

Soon, the flood of regurgitated food slows down to a drip, and I'm heaving up dry air. I grab the chance to gulp in oxygen, shakily trying to gather together a rhythmic pattern in my chaotic breaths. _Slow down, John,_ I command myself, gripping the edge of the sink as my stomach begins to relax. The bowling ball of pain still squashes my intestines, but it remains motionless. A small whimper floats through the crackling flames in my throat. My body grabs at it, straining to snap it back and prevent it from reaching my mouth. But it manages to wriggle free, and it stumbles from between my lips, half-strangled but existing. I cringe as the pathetic noise trickles into the silence.

Sherlock clears his throat, the harsh sound rattling against his vocal cords. At the sound, I jerk my attention to him. He is slipping out of his shoes, his socked feet avoiding the puddles of wet vomit. "Are you done?" he demands, his gaze sharp on me.

"No," I say, my eyes slipping shut. A sour taste stains my tongue, a temporary reminder of the shameful event. _Oh, God,_ I silently groan. _I just threw up on Sherlock._ Unpleasant warmth engulfs my face.

Muttered deductions reach my ears before my flatmate addresses me once more. "Yes, you're done," he confirms, crossing the kitchen with a few long strides. He stops at a close range to me, intruding my personal bubble. His head tilts to one side. He stares at me for a few seconds.

My mouth gathers saliva and shoves it down my throat. I feel my Adam's apple bob as I swallow. His observing eyes run over my face, determined not to miss a single detail. By now, I should be used to his constant gaze that plasters itself to me. But every time I meet his glowing globes, I feel trapped and vulnerable. He is the hunter eyeing me and determining my strength, and I am the animal slowly backing into the corner. 

"You should lie down," Sherlock says, the warm breaths of his words brushing against my cheeks.

I nod, knowing he is right. However, I'm not sure if I can trust my legs to carry me all the way to the bedroom. My fingers slowly relax their tight grip on the counter. I take small steps on his quivering legs. I manage to get past the kitchen table before my knees buckle. I stumble, gravity yanking me down to the ground. A firm hand suddenly seizes my arm, and an arm snakes around my waist. My feet slip and slide on the tiled floor, struggling to grab some sort of balance. The limbs tighten their grip and roughly haul me up so that I am standing once more.

"T-Thanks," I pant.

The words barely fall from my mouth when Sherlock takes off. He drags me through the living room and towards the staircase. A small yelp flies out of my throat as my balance disappears. I stumble along on my shaky legs, forced to lean against the detective for support. The curly-haired male feels skinnier than he looks. His sharp bones jab through his thin shirt, digging into my flesh. Worry lines deepen in my forehead as I try to lean as little as possible on him. Is Sherlock really strong enough? What if we fall-

"John, I'm not weak," Sherlock snaps, as if reading my mind.

I hastily snap the door to my thoughts shut. "Sorry," I mutter as my flatmate drags me up the steps.


	3. ragged saturdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John breathes with Sherlock.

_John's Point of View_

___

It's Saturday afternoon. The cold bathroom tiles press against my legs as I kneel on them. I draw the back of my hand across my bile-stained mouth, my empty gaze latched in the porcelain bowl. Stained by partially digested cereal, the unfriendly white sends ice-coated glares at me.

_I told him it was a bad idea to eat,_ I think, my face withering.

Over the past two days, I have refused food, spending my time curled up in a fetal position in my bed. Sometimes, I have nibbled at a few biscuits and managed to keep down a little water. But this morning, Sherlock decided to force feed me cereal. "It's for an experiment," the bloody git had claimed, shoving a cold spoonful of soggy flakes into my mouth. But I don't care about experiments or proving theories to be correct. I just want to feel better. Unfortunately, my flatmate seems to be striving to achieve the opposite effect on me.

A vibration runs up my leg. My hand shoves into my pocket. My fingers bump into a buzzing lump. _Just a text message,_ I realize, pulling out the quivering phone. The screen burns into my eyes, and I have to squint to read the message. Of course, it's from Sherlock.

_Have you vomited?_ it reads, the black words sneering at my disheveled state.

I run a hand through my hair, still feeling a little nauseous. I tap out a short reply. _Yes,_ I insert, too exhausted to come up with a longer answer. My finger moves to press the send button, but it hesitates. _Where are you?_ I add into the message before sending it.

A minute later, my phone beeps with a new reply. _Good. Don't flush the toilet,_ is all Sherlock has written, not even bothering to answer my question. My eyes widen at the message. Good? My gaze shifts over to the shameful mess splattered inside the toilet. Is "good" all he can say? I squint at my vomit, wondering if Sherlock added something into the cereal to cause me to throw up.

"He would do something like that," I mutter. I'm overwhelmed by the sudden urge to ignore Sherlock's instructions and flush the toilet. My hand reaches out to do so, but I pause. Maybe it's not such a great idea. _But I'm not his lab rat!_ I think, a sudden fierceness surging through me. My hand flies towards the toilet flush, dead set on shoving it down. But the abrupt movement jerks my body, causing me to slip from my kneeling position. My legs skid out from underneath me as my head tumbles forward. My chin cracks loudly against the hard toilet bowl. Pain explodes all the way down to my jawbone. A piercing hiss squirms through my clenched teeth.

"Shi. . ." the word is left half-baked, steaming in the air. I slowly fold my limbs into a sitting position, my hand rubbing my jaw.

Downstairs, the door to the flat slams open, announcing the return of the arsehole. The wind barges into the hallway with a loud, victorious screech, but it is cut off when the door bangs shut again. Heavy footsteps rush up the stairs, sounding closer with every thump until Sherlock flies into the bathroom. "Let me see it," he demands, bending over me and peering into the toilet.

"Sherlock!"

The curly-haired male rolls his eyes. "Move over," he says, his hand pushing at my shoulder. "You're in my way."

I grumble, scooting over to make more room for the detective. He kneels in front of the toilet, staring at the goopy remains of the cereal. For a minute, he remains silent. I see his eyes flickering between the vomit and I, his mind analyzing all the details and signs. Soon, he'll want to touch the bloody-

"John, fetch me a pair of latex gloves," he orders, already shoving the sleeves of his coat up to his elbows.

I blink, my eyebrows shooting up. "In case you didn't notice-"

"Yes, you're sick," Sherlock interjects before my sarcasm can slap him in the face. "But you're still capable of moving about."

"But I-"

The detective turns to face me, his lips pressing together in a thin line. "John," he simply says, a serious tone seeping through the name.

Crossing my arms against my chest, I stare straight at Sherlock. "No," I say, a firm tone gripping the word tightly.

"Bu-"

"A trip downstairs won-" A slash of stomach pain cuts me off, and I double over with a loud groan. My arms tightly wrap around my abdomen, hugging it as hard as they possibly can. "Won't k-kill . . . you," I gasp out in a desperate attempt to finish my sentence. The faint words choke from my throat and wheeze for breath.

Strong hands grip my arm. "Breathe," Sherlock commands, shaking me.

The sudden jolting increases my nausea. "S-Stop!" I squeak, trying to pull away from the rough fingers.

"John, listen to me," the detective says quickly. "You're panicking. You have to _breathe._ "

I can only shudder and nod, half formed breaths jolting from my mouth. The room swirls around in a dizzy blur with every breath I suck in. I squeeze my eyes shut, straining to draw a bountiful amount of air into my lungs. The fingers tighten on my arm as the detective shoves orders at me, barking them at the top of his lungs. A trembling gasp rips out of my throat, interrupting my plea for help. My head jams forward, slamming and burying itself into Sherlock's stomach. The detective stiffens at the unexpected touch, the muscles of his abdomen drawing taut. His chest rises up and deflates, his breaths quick and pounding with the excitement rushing through his veins. I inhale along with him and try to copy the pattern of breaths his body creates. The pain fades into the back of my mind as I drill my focus into the gentle waves of inhalations and exhalations rolling from his body. My ragged breaths begin to even out. Sherlock remains still, the tight grip of his hands searing into my shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just love the descriptions of the vomiting?


	4. butterfly breaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock's breaths are butterflies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write at midnight since my mind becomes a little more psychotic. But on some nights, I become too tired to do my best. I'm not very pleased with this chapter, so please accept my apologies for it.

  
_John's Point of View_

___

The kitchen swims in front of me before wobbling back into place.

"How much longer?" I croak, my eyes swinging to the detective. My bottom feels numb after sitting at the kitchen table for nearly an hour, and my legs are beginning to cramp.

Sitting across from me, Sherlock remains silent. His stare is plastered to my left hand, which is stretched out on the table like one of his experiments. His fingers run over my palm, brushing against a long, red spiral curled up on it. Its thin, elegant curves rest very close to the surface of my skin, appearing as if a thread has been trapped in my hand. I remember noticing it two weeks ago, but my medical experience told me it was nothing. But now, it seems to be darkening, and Sherlock suspects it may be connected to the sudden rise of nausea. I should have showed the spiral to him when I first found it, but I brushed it off as unimportant. It never came to my mind again until an hour ago, when Sherlock pointed it out after I had gained control over my breathing.

I squirm in my seat, wishing Sherlock would leave the spiral alone. He insists on a thorough examination though.

"Stay still," he snaps, one of his hands reaching out and pinning my wrist onto the table.

"Staring at it won't help," I complain, glancing at my watch, but bare skin meets my eyes.

Sherlock frowns, his fingers prodding at my palm. "I'm observing," he huffs. "And you left your watch on the nightstand." His face leans closer to my left hand until his warm breaths ghost over my skin, saturating it with moisture. Every one of his exhalations release butterflies of air, their wings fluttering against my fingertips and sending tingles breezing through my fingers.

Nausea begins to rise in my stomach. In an attempt to distract myself, I stare at his eyes running along the red spiral dancing in my hand. His gaze traces the elegant curves of the foreign beauty, mapping out every detail in his mind. I can imagine a chart hanging somewhere in the deep rooms of his Mind Palace-a chart of my hand bursting with information, pointing out every thin line embedded in my palm, every callous protruding from the worn skin. How can he retain so much knowledge and manage to organize it in his head? The mind has an endless galaxy stretched inside of it with no walls to limit our thinking. Our thoughts are wild creatures, dashing all over and smearing bloody handprints in the darkness of our heads. They dart around and hide their faces in the long feathers of their wings. Some creep closer when we beckon towards them. Others hiss before fleeing or sinking their claws into our flesh. We love to observe and entertain them, toying around with them or batting at them. We become cats, pouncing upon them and plastering our questioning stares on their quivering forms. We poke at our thoughts like Sherlock prods at his experiments. So I can't help but wonder: how can Sherlock grab such an endless universe and wrestle it into a large Mind Palace of organized rooms? How can he wander through its long corridors without the fear of losing himself in them? 

The detective relaxes his grip on my wrist, releasing me. As my thoughts dissipate, I pull back my hand, the skin still tingling from his butterfly breaths. I begin to rub the red spiral on my palm.

"Keep an eye on it," he orders. The chair screeches against the floor as he rises.

I glance up at him, pulling a false serious look on my face. "Yes, _Doctor_ Holmes," I manage say before a grin pulls on my mouth.

Sherlock stares at me, his eyes devoid of all emotion. I search his face for any traces of amusement, any crinkles in the corners of his eyes. I wait, almost expecting a grin to slowly form onto his face before he breaks down and releases a giggle. But he doesn't. His lips tighten before he hurries off, leaving me alone at the table. I remain in my seat, staring at the empty chair across from me and wondering what has gone wrong. Normally, when a good mood falls upon him, Sherlock will humor me with a small smile or a tiny scoff. He seemed fine this morning, despite the fact that Lestrade had no cases for him. If anything, I would expect him to be bouncing off the walls in excitement with the mystery of my current condition. After all, it's unlike all his other cases, which swirl around murders and irreversible deaths. Yes, this time, he has the opportunity of observing a live human with a strange blemish in his health.

A loud crack erupts from the living room, accompanied by loud footsteps. I turn to see Sherlock return. My eyebrows raise at the syringe tightly gripped in his hand. Before I can question his intentions, he grabs my wrist and stretches my arm out to its full length. My mouth opens to stop him, but he slides the needle into a green vein without a warning. A small prick of pain flashes through my arm. I blink as my dark blood begins to fill up the syringe.

"You didn't clean it," I say, my medical knowledge poking me in the head.

He ignores me and pulls the needle out, turning his back on me with my blood in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's strange behavior is beginning to concern John. You'll get to see more of it in the next chapter. Votes (make that little heart glow) and comments are appreciated as always. I love hearing your thoughts and seeing how I can improve.


	5. sometimes, the violin screams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the night plunges into a sea of blood.

  
_Sherlock's Point of View_

___

It's Sunday evening. My gentle hands cradle the fragile violin. My fingers pluck at the strings to form a tuneless basket of notes as I stare out of the window. The curtains have been drawn aside to allow me to view the full moon rising in the darkness stretching across the sky. I catch a faint reflection of my tall figure in the thick window, a pale face with a brown, delicate instrument nuzzling his cheek. My hand closes around the bow, raising it towards the violin. I draw it across the strings, forming the beginnings of a wail. My eyebrows lower in a frown as I pull the bow away, but the scream continues stretching out into the darkness. It fills my ears, piercing my eardrums and wriggling its way into my head.

_John_ , is the first thought that zaps my mind. Abandoning my violin in its black case, I cross the living room in long strides and rush up the staircase, my feet thumping against the creaking stairs. A loud sob shakes the flat. I increase my pace, hurrying towards his room where the shuddering cries increase in volume. Twisting the doorknob, I fling the door open and freeze in my tracks, my attention falling upon the sheets. Tangling his limbs, the white fabric twists around John, splattered in blood. Red droplets ooze from the edge, dripping onto the carpet and staining it with a dark shade.

I step forward. A floorboard creaks underneath my foot, and John jerks his head up. Wet jewels glisten on his face, trickling down his rough cheeks and sliding along the curve of his chin. The faint glow of the streetlamps seeps in through the cracks in the wind blinds. They catch his face, illuminating it and enlarging his eyes until they appear luminous in the dim layer of darkness. He draws back, his breath hitching. The reddening sheets cling to him, plastered to his skin.

"S-Stay away," he squeaks, his voice wobbling.

My body longs to take another step forward, but my mind holds it back. My muscles strain to keep my legs still before I give in. I cross the room, my eyes fixed on his. He shrinks away with every thump of my shoes. I see him wrap the sheets around his hand, the one with the spiral on it. I stop at his bedside, snapping my attention to his hidden palm.

"Let me see," I demand.

He shakes his head. "No," he chokes out, drawing his hand closer to him.

As soon as I flinch to reach out for it, he leaps into action faster than I expect. He rolls out of the bed, stealing the bloodied sheets with him as he disappears on the other side of the mattress. A heavy thump explodes on the floorboards.

"Stay away!" he yells.

I remain where I am standing. "Let me see," I repeat, each stern word jabbing him in the chest.

"No-"

"Now," I growl. "Stop trying to protect me." A short silence follows. His quivering breaths fill my ears, followed by a choked sob and a sniffle. " _John_ ," I say.

A loud bang fills my ears, and the nightstand quivers. "No!" he shouts.

My eyes widen. "Oh, for God's sake!" I roar, my fingers tensing into tight claws. "I-" I cut myself off, sucking in a deep breath. The oxygen rushes in, soothing the heat rising in my chest. I lower my voice into softer tones, saying, "I won't touch the blood."

He digests my promise for a few seconds before I hear the rustle of fabric. He rises, the sheets sliding off of his shoulders and pooling around his feet. I stare into his glistening eyes as mouth opens, a breath rising from his lungs and floating out. "Okay," he says, the quiet word melting into the darkness.

I stare at him for a few seconds, and his head gives me the tiniest of nods.

"Okay," I echo.

₪₪₪

John doesn't think it'll be wise of him to brew a cup of tea. I make one for him while he changes into clean pajamas. I dip a silver spoon into the white bowl of sugar, scooping up the sweet grains. _How many times has John done this for me?_ I wonder.

_Sentiment!_ my mind screams. I ignore the warning, allowing myself to indulge in a useless thought for a moment. Of all the rooms in this flat, he is mostly found in the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stovetop. I tilt the sugar into the tea, watching it slide off the metal and break the brown surface of the liquid. _How much tea has he made within the past year?_ Behind me, the creaking of floorboards announces John's arrival. My hand stirs the drink with the spoon until the crystals melt. Obviously more than one cup. My gaze falls upon the sugar littering the counter as calculations run through my head. _A lot,_ I conclude as the large number appears in my mind. The times I made tea for him is nothing compared to that. 

"We're out of milk," I announce to John, sparing him a glance. He is perched on the edge of his seat in front of the kitchen table, clutching his hand with the spiral on it. His stiff muscles appear ready to leap into action at any given moment. He says nothing as I step over and set the cup in front of him. The white steam dances from the tea, curling into itself at the cold touches of the air. I remain standing next to him, looming over his figure quivering with tension. My fingers reach out and rest on the wrist of his injured hand. He flinches at my touch.

"Let me see," I say, sliding a fake gentleness in my tone. He has hidden his palm from me, turning it so I cannot see it. "John."

He says, "It looks awful."

My grip tightens on him. "John," I repeat.

"What?" he cries, hostility bristling in his tone.

His gaze snaps up to meet mine. My eyes catch his in a gentle stare, holding him in place with a soft look. His bottom lip curls back. His teeth bite down on the soft flesh before his shoulders sag. As he turns his face away, his muscles relax underneath my touch. With careful fingers, I flip his hand over to reveal his palm. The sight causes my eyes to widen. I smooth the shock off of my face and observe the spiral for a few seconds. He shifts in his seat, squirming until I release his hand. I sink down into the seat opposite from him, staring at the kitchen wall.

"It's bleeding," he mumbles, tugging the sleeve of his pajama top over his hand.

"Yes, the spiral's bleeding," I say.

He fingers the smooth handle of the teacup, tracing its elegant curve. "It broke the skin," he says.

"Yes," I say. My hands press together in their thinking position, coming to rest upon my lips. "Yes, it did," I mumble against my fingers.

He reins in a deep breath, holding it in his mouth as his chest rises. I wait for him to exhale and blurt out more words, but he remains still. My eyes flicker towards him. He is staring at his tea with the corners of his lips turned down. I observe the heavy bags hanging underneath his eyes, the lines deepening on his worn face. His shoulders are slumped. They're not thrown back into his usual military stance, the position that suits him well and screams to everyone that he is the one in control of the room. He knows what he's doing, not them. They take one glance, and they know there is something strange and interesting about him. It's that kind and confident but bold air about him that sets him apart from the rest of the world.

He doesn't have that air with him right now.

An uneasy feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach. "John?" I say.

He flinches before he lifts his head up to look at me. "Yes?" he says.

"You have something to say," I say, my words flat.

He says nothing for a few seconds before his head gives me a slow nod. "Yeah," he mutters. "Yeah, I do." He pauses before shaking his head. "I'm going back to bed. That's all."

I stare at him. "Okay," I mumble.

"Good night," he murmurs. He pushes his chair back and rises to his feet, the wooden legs scraping against the floorboards. He picks up his untouched teacup and sets it in front of me. He begins to draw back his hand, but it stops in the middle of the air. It hovers near me for a second before resting on my shoulder.

My eyes remain fixed upon the grains of the table. His fingers tighten, searing past my dressing gown and leaving their mark deep in my flesh. His thumb brushes against the bare skin of my neck before his hand pulls away. The soft creaks of the floor fill my ears as he trudges out of the kitchen, his slippers scraping against the wooden boards. I listen to him head up the stairs. I reach out for the cup and raise it to my lips, tilting it into my mouth. The lukewarm tea sinks into my tongue as one word pounds through the darkness in my head.

_Liar._


	6. the neglected blog (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John's blog is dusty from being stuck in the corner.

  
_John's Point of View_

___

I slump back on the couch, rubbing my eyes. In the past hour, an insistent burn has been building up in them from staring at the computer screen for too long. The overheating laptop burns through my legs, searing past the fabric of my pants with its heat. I shift it into a more comfortable position before placing my hands on the keyboard. Opening up a library of documents and files, I click on the search box. My fingers lightly tap on the keys, not pressing hard enough to trigger the letters to pop up on the screen. I hesitate before beginning to type out a few letters. "D-i-s-e-a-"

Sherlock's bedroom door flies open. My hands fly into action, stabbing at the mouse and closing the open files and tabs scattered across the screen. I leave my blog open. The detective strolls past and gives the innocent page a nonchalant glance before disappearing into the kitchen. My stiff muscles relax as the tension fades from my body. I remain still for a few seconds, listening to him open a few cupboards and rummage around.

"I know you're listening," he calls.

I roll my eyes before focusing my attention on my blog. I have been leaving an occasional update on it, but it remains quiet and neglected for the most part. The readers like to flood the posts with comments begging for more. But every time I open up a new blog entry, the empty white box stares at me. Its blank expression sucks the inspiration out of my mind. It doesn't help that Sherlock scoffs at my writing abilities. He often hacks onto my account to correct spelling errors and "improve my posts." The sound of light footsteps alerts me, drawing my attention to reality. I twist my head around to see Sherlock holding up a beaker to the light and observing it. His eyes trail down to meet mine. He stares at me with a blank expression for a few seconds. I turn back around and fix my gaze upon my computer screen, but it's too late.

"You're hiding something," Sherlock says.

I choose to remain quiet, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he is right. The floorboard creaks as he steps closer. Without a warning, he drops his chin in the curve of my shoulder. The heavy weight causes me to frown. I shift around, trying to cause his head to slip off.

"Sherlock," I warn, but he remains fixed in place.

"What were you looking at?" he mutters, a large hand reaching out to paw at the laptop touchpad.

"Oi, sod off!" I swat his fingers away. "It's none of your business."

He hums into my ear, the vibrations of his vocal cords sending an involuntary shiver skating up my spine. "Oh, I'll find out sooner or later," he whispers. "You know that." With that, he lifts his head off of my shoulder. He departs from the living room, his footsteps fading as he ventures into his bedroom.


	7. the neglected blog (part two)

  
_John's Point of View_

___

A few days have passed since Sherlock has vowed to uncover my secret.

“Tea’s ready,” I call from the kitchen, watching the steam dance from the matching set of mugs. I had dug them out from the back of the cupboard, deciding to put them to good use. “Git,” I mutter underneath my breath when he makes no reply. I pick up the drinks, careful not to disturb the white folds of the bandage wrapped around my left hand. I carry them into the silent living room. “We’re out of sugar,” I say, glancing down at his tea and hoping it’ll taste sweet enough. I glance towards Sherlock. He is sprawled out on the couch, curled up around a laptop. “What are you up to now?”

He looks up at me, rolls his eyes, and returns his attention to the screen. I follow his gaze and freeze in mid-step. Wait . . . that’s my computer.

“Sherlock,” I say, hiding the tremor in my voice. My thoughts dart to the private files he could have opened. 

Sherlock ignores me, his eyes plastered to the screen. _Click_ , goes the computer mouse. _Click. Click._ I set the tea down on the coffee table. Scooping up the laptop, I glance at his previous activities. My attention falls upon an Internet page talking about several scientific theories concerning bees. My shoulders sag in relief as I exit the browser before shutting the lid to the computer.

“You know, there’s this thing called privacy,” I mutter, leaving the electronic device in my armchair.

His shoulders lift up in a shrug. “Never heard of it,” he shoots back, stretching out onto his back.

I raise my eyebrows at Sherlock, who mirrors my expression. Shaking my head, I grab the mugs of tea, handing one to him. “Drink up,” I say.

My fingers grab his bony ankles, shoving them off of the couch. As soon as I sit down next to him, he swings his feet onto my lap. I glance down at them before carefully resting my left hand on the one closest to me. Sherlock releases a gentle hum as my thumb rubs the side of his foot. The rough skin prickles against my touch. I sink back into the soft upholstery, a quiet sigh escaping my lips. My attention flickers to our blurry reflections on the black television screen, our dark figures captured in its blank stare. I watch Sherlock take a cautious sip of his tea. His pink tongue slips out of his mouth to catch a few brown droplets on his bottom lip. 

“John?” Sherlock says, breaking the silence.

What now? I wonder, still watching his reflection. His head is turned towards me, the mug resting on his stomach. “Yeah?” I say, beginning to raise my drink to my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flurry of movement. Strong fingers wrap around mine, preventing me from moving. I blink. My gaze slips down to his hand gripping mine, his white knuckles straining against his pallid skin. I turn to face him and see that he is sitting up. “Sherlock?” I ask, my eyebrows lowering in a frown.

He stares at our interlocked digits, the corners of his lips turned down. His thumb brushes against the back of my hand, sending tingles rushing through my nerves. I remain still as he repeats the motion before his grip tightens on me.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock whispers, his eyes slipping shut.

I stare at him, my muscles tensing underneath his touch. “You saw them,” I say, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip. “The . . . files.” My breaths begin to quicken, growing shallower with every inhalation. “Didn’t you?” I demand, my voice rising.

He draws in a large mouthful of air. “Yes,” he tells me in a soft voice. A short pause follows. “Some of them.”


	8. the neglected blog (part three)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the secret is broken.

  
_John's Point of View_

___

I slump back into the couch, staring at the creamy swirls of the milk floating around in my tea. “How much do you know?” I ask.

The words barely escape my lips before he cuts in with a quick reply, saying, “It’s a contagious disease.” His hand tightens on mine until I feel the bones of his fingers digging into my skin. “Any open wounds that make contact with the blood will result in a slow death.” His words sound robotic, empty. He’s quoting directly from the documents. “The ca—”

“Okay, stop,” I breathe. “Stop.”

“Those are only the basics though,” he adds. “I know there’s more.”

My jaw clenches as my gaze drops down to my left hand. It is wrapped in a tight embrace of bandages, the white folds preventing the blood flowing freely. “It bleeds every night,” I confess, glancing back at him.

“But you can fix it,” Sherlock says, giving me a hard stare. He shifts closer, his lips tightening into a thin line. “You can. You are . . . an excellent doctor.”

An excellent doctor. The words echo in my ears as my mind cradles it with careful hands, tucking the memory away. When has he ever offered me praise like this before? When was the last time he made a positive remark about me without staining it with a negative comment? _Never_ , I think, a warm feeling surging in my chest. Probably never. A ghost of a smile flickers on my face, beginning to grow firmer against my lips. But my thoughts wander to the documents, to the cold, hard truth embedded in the stomach of their pages. My smile fades. I feel the glow of happiness draining from my eyes.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“No?”

I turn my face away from him, too ashamed to look him in the eye. My fingers reach up to rub a circle in my aching temple. “That’s not true,” I choke out.

"I just said you were an excellent one.”

“But it’s not true.”

A few seconds crawl by before his grip tightens around my hand. “Tell me then,” He says in a low voice, a challenging tone rising in his words. “Tell me why you’re not a good doctor.” He pauses.

I know it’s a silent invitation for me to speak, to defend my declaration. My tongue forms the sentence, rolling it around and playing with the idea of launching it out into the air. But when I open my mouth, my voice cords remain immovable. My lips clamp shut. I can’t do it, I think, my fingers tightening around his hand. _He can deduce it for himself_ , I decide. _If he’s such a wonderful detective, he can figure this out._ I stare at his reflection on the blank television screen. It’s the heavy truth that leaves me ashamed and unable to look him in the eye. How can he bear to watch me like that, his eyes tracing my face? His thumb brushes my knuckles as it runs along the bumps of the hard bones. His thoughts are weighed down with so much intensity that I can almost feel the weight of them dragging down the silence in the room. _That brilliant mind of his_ , I think. _It’s too brilliant for his own good._

His lips form around soundless words, the silent letters dancing on the soft flesh. He is getting too close to unearthing the truth. His stare digs into my chest, prying open my rib cage until it gives in with a snap and a warm scream.

_It’s going to kill him one day._

As I watch his reflection, I can see the exact moment when his thoughts pierce my heart and rip out the truth. His mouth twitches and freezes without warning, tension raking through his grip. I hear a sharp intake of breath, and he grows still. My gaze drops to my limp left hand, running over the white bandages. I feel exposed and open. My chest hangs open with all the information spilling out, seeping into the fibers of my jumper.

"Say it," I order. I should've known better than to think I could hide this from him.

He remains silent.

"Say it," I say, louder. "Or I will."

I hear the rustle of fabric. The cushions dip underneath Sherlock's weight as he shuffles across the couch on his knees. Hot breath blasts the exposed skin on my neck when he leans near, grasping the cuff of my jumper. My head jerks in his direction. Before I can protest, he shoves the sleeve up in one quick motion, his fingers scraping against stiff bandages twisted around my right arm. He stares at the blotches of pale red oozing through the folds of white. My shoulders slump as he raises one quivering finger to trace the faint outline of the blood. His Adam's apple bobs up and down when he swallows. He lifts his eyes towards me and captures my gaze with his. I can't see the colors dancing in his pools or floating through the black pupils. The emotions no longer ghost across his face or burst in brilliant shades. There appears to be nothing.

His lips part, revealing a hollow hole for his words to spill out. "You weren't planning on telling me," he whispers.

I stare at him, and he knows. His fingers tighten before releasing my arm and hand, tendrils of golden warmth seeping from my skin and following him. He turns his back on me without another word. _This is it,_ I think, staring at the curve of his spine. _He's going to-_

My breath hitches as Sherlock falls onto his back, his head slamming into my thighs. His fingers shoot out and capture my hand, the one free of bandages. Sandwiching it in between his large ones, he tugs it down until it rests on his chest. His heart pounds at my fingertips, the powerful muscle hammering a steady beat that feels a little too rapid to be normal. A shuddering breath finds its way from his parted lips before he grows still, his stare plastered to the ceiling.

The truth wells up in the tightening walls of my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it rises onto my tongue. It shoves past my tight mouth, and I find myself saying, "I can't fix it."

The grip tightens on my hand. "I know," he whispers.

My lips flap, forming around silent sentences without releasing any of them. Boneless words spew out of my mouth. The dam has broken, and I can't stop talking now. "I can't fix it."

His thumb runs along the dips and rises of my knuckles. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is still more to come. c:


End file.
